The Price She Paid [124]
things a little, but nothing much except making a success of musical comedy and comic opera. He had an ambition, carefully restrained in a closet of his mind, where it could not issue forth and interfere with his business. This ambition was to be a giver of grand opera on a superb scale. He regarded himself as a mere money-maker--was not ashamed of this, but neither was he proud of it. His ambition then represented a dream of a rise to something more than business man, to friend and encourager and wet nurse to art.
Mildred Gower had happened to set his imagination to working. The discovery that she was one of those whose personalities rouse high expectations only to mock them had been a severe blow to his confidence in his own judgment. Though he pretended to believe, and had the habit of saying that he was ``weak and soft,'' was always being misled by his good nature, he really believed himself an unerring judge of human beings, and, as his success evidenced, he was not far wrong. Thus, though convinced that Mildred was a ``false alarm,'' his secret vanity would not let him release his original idea. He had the tenacity that is an important element in all successes; and tenacity become a fixed habit has even been known to ruin in the end the very careers it has made.
Said Mildred, in a manner which was astonishingly unemotional and businesslike: ``I've not come to tattle and to whine, Mr. Crossley. I've hesitated about coming at all, partly because I've an instinct it's useless, partly because what I have to say isn't easy.''
Crossley's expression hardened. The old story!-- excuses, excuses, self-excuse--somebody else to blame.
``If it hadn't been for Mr. Ransdell--the trouble he took with me, the coaching he gave me--I'd have been a ridiculous failure at the very first rehearsal. But --it is to Mr. Ransdell that my failure is due.''
``My dear Miss Gower,'' said Crossley, polite but cold, ``I regret hearing you say that. The fact is very different. Not until you had done so--so unacceptably at several rehearsals that news of it reached me by another way--not until I myself went to Mr. Ransdell about you did he admit that there could be a possibility of a doubt of your succeeding. I had to go to rehearsal myself and directly order him to restore Miss Esmond and lay you off.''
Mildred was not unprepared. She received this tranquilly. ``Mr. Ransdell is a very clever man,'' said she with perfect good humor. ``I've no hope of convincing you, but I must tell my side.''
And clearly and simply, with no concealments through fear of disturbing his high ideal of her ladylike deli- cacy, she told him the story. He listened, seated well back in his tilted desk-chair, his gaze upon the ceiling. When she finished he held his pose a moment, then got up and paced the length of the office several times, his hands in his pockets. He paused, looked keenly at her, a good-humored smile in those eyes of his so fascinating to women because of their frank wavering of an inconstancy it would indeed be a triumph to seize and hold. Said he:
``And your bad throat? Did Ransdell give you a germ?''
She colored. He had gone straight at the weak point.
``If you'd been able to sing,'' he went on, ``nobody could have done you up.''
She could not gather herself together for speech.
``Didn't you know your voice wasn't reliable when you came to me?''
``Yes,'' she admitted.
``And wasn't that the REAL reason you had given up grand opera?'' pursued he mercilessly.
``The reason was what I told you--lack of money,'' replied she. ``I did not go into the reason why I lacked money. Why should I when, even on my worst days, I could get through all my part in a musical comedy-- except songs that could be cut down or cut out? If I could have made good at acting, would you have given me up on account of my voice?''
``Not if you had been good enough,'' he admitted.
``Then I did not get my engagement on false pretenses?''
``No. You are right. Still, your fall-down as a singer is the important
Mildred Gower had happened to set his imagination to working. The discovery that she was one of those whose personalities rouse high expectations only to mock them had been a severe blow to his confidence in his own judgment. Though he pretended to believe, and had the habit of saying that he was ``weak and soft,'' was always being misled by his good nature, he really believed himself an unerring judge of human beings, and, as his success evidenced, he was not far wrong. Thus, though convinced that Mildred was a ``false alarm,'' his secret vanity would not let him release his original idea. He had the tenacity that is an important element in all successes; and tenacity become a fixed habit has even been known to ruin in the end the very careers it has made.
Said Mildred, in a manner which was astonishingly unemotional and businesslike: ``I've not come to tattle and to whine, Mr. Crossley. I've hesitated about coming at all, partly because I've an instinct it's useless, partly because what I have to say isn't easy.''
Crossley's expression hardened. The old story!-- excuses, excuses, self-excuse--somebody else to blame.
``If it hadn't been for Mr. Ransdell--the trouble he took with me, the coaching he gave me--I'd have been a ridiculous failure at the very first rehearsal. But --it is to Mr. Ransdell that my failure is due.''
``My dear Miss Gower,'' said Crossley, polite but cold, ``I regret hearing you say that. The fact is very different. Not until you had done so--so unacceptably at several rehearsals that news of it reached me by another way--not until I myself went to Mr. Ransdell about you did he admit that there could be a possibility of a doubt of your succeeding. I had to go to rehearsal myself and directly order him to restore Miss Esmond and lay you off.''
Mildred was not unprepared. She received this tranquilly. ``Mr. Ransdell is a very clever man,'' said she with perfect good humor. ``I've no hope of convincing you, but I must tell my side.''
And clearly and simply, with no concealments through fear of disturbing his high ideal of her ladylike deli- cacy, she told him the story. He listened, seated well back in his tilted desk-chair, his gaze upon the ceiling. When she finished he held his pose a moment, then got up and paced the length of the office several times, his hands in his pockets. He paused, looked keenly at her, a good-humored smile in those eyes of his so fascinating to women because of their frank wavering of an inconstancy it would indeed be a triumph to seize and hold. Said he:
``And your bad throat? Did Ransdell give you a germ?''
She colored. He had gone straight at the weak point.
``If you'd been able to sing,'' he went on, ``nobody could have done you up.''
She could not gather herself together for speech.
``Didn't you know your voice wasn't reliable when you came to me?''
``Yes,'' she admitted.
``And wasn't that the REAL reason you had given up grand opera?'' pursued he mercilessly.
``The reason was what I told you--lack of money,'' replied she. ``I did not go into the reason why I lacked money. Why should I when, even on my worst days, I could get through all my part in a musical comedy-- except songs that could be cut down or cut out? If I could have made good at acting, would you have given me up on account of my voice?''
``Not if you had been good enough,'' he admitted.
``Then I did not get my engagement on false pretenses?''
``No. You are right. Still, your fall-down as a singer is the important